me the palace of an emperor and my resolution entirely left me.
Actually I walked up the street for some distance before I was able to
secure sufficient grip on myself to return and enter.

"It is entirely unwarranted and very presumptuous in me to be thus
intruding on a great author's time," I admitted, but it was too late to
retreat, and so I kept on. Entering the wide central hall I crept warily
across its polished, hardwood floor to the desk where a highly ornate
clerk presided. In a meek, husky voice I asked, "Is Mr. Howells in?"

"He is, but he's at dinner," the despot on the other side of the counter
coldly replied, and his tone implied that he didn't think the great
author would relish being disturbed by an individual who didn't even
know the proper time to call. However, I produced my letter of
introduction and with some access of spirit requested His Highness to
have it sent in.

A colored porter soon returned, showed me to a reception room off the
hall, and told me that Mr. Howells would be out in a few minutes. During
these minutes I sat with eyes on the portieres and a frog in my throat.
"How will he receive me? How will he look? What shall I say to him?" I
asked myself, and behold I hadn't an idea left!

Suddenly the curtains parted and a short man with a large head stood
framed in the opening. His face was impassive but his glance was one of
the most piercing I had ever encountered. In the single instant before
he smiled he discovered my character and my thought as though his eyes
had been the lenses of some singular and powerful x-ray instrument. It
was the glance of a novelist.

Of course all this took but a moment's time. Then his face softened,
became winning and his glance was gracious. "I'm glad to see you," he
said, and his tone was cordial. "Won't you be seated?"

We took seats at the opposite ends of a long sofa, and Mr. Howells began
at once to inquire concerning the work and the purposes of his visitor.
He soon drew forth the story of my coming to Boston and developed my
theory of literature, listening intently while I told him of my history
of American Ideals and my attempt at fiction.

My conception of the local novel and of its great importance in American
literature, especially interested the master who listened intently while
I enlarged upon my reasons for believing that the local novel would
continue to grow in power and insight. At the end I said, "In my
judgment the men and wome